


Let my gods be your gods and we will be immortal

by 1000lux



Series: Does your journey still continue? [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, Injury, M/M, Sexual Tension, Sickness, War, actual slash this time, because I hadn't watched the episode yet when I wrote this, because I still can't write a sex scene without blushing, if that's even what you can call it, ivar's weird way of flirting, looking into Heahmund's time with the vikings, more ivar/heahmund, no spoilers for full moon, not really explicit though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000lux/pseuds/1000lux
Summary: "Now that you are here among us... heathens." A wicked smirk. "Aren't you worried? Huh, bishop?" Ivar tilted his head. "What about your belief?" he asked teasingly. "What about your... immortal soul?"Can be read as a standalone, but there are references to the other two stories.





	Let my gods be your gods and we will be immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own rights to either the show or the characters.
> 
> Continuation to my other stories about those two, but can be read without them too, even thought there are some allusions to stuff that happened in the other two parts.
> 
> Keep in mind though, that those three stories are all happening pretty much at the same time, and not exactly in chronological order. Or more precisely this part is kinda the frame for the other two stories. But you should still read them in the order in which I posted them.
> 
> A big thank you to the Ivar/Heahmund fandom!!! You guys have been really awesome! <3 I hope to see some of you at this story as well.

Ivar saw his relief, his utter exhileration at holding a blade again, of having been given a weapon, the chance to fight. Happiness. As much happiness as Ivar felt whenever he was inmidst a battle, as close to a battle as he could be. Ivar could understand that. This man was a warrior much more than he was a priest. At least for a Christian one, as with Ivar's own faith, those two weren't contrary. This man would fight for as long as he still had the chance to. A free man in that moment he cut the other man's throat. Free to fight, free of the chains still around his wrists, free of pretense. For just a moment he was like any other man around him. One of them. And he relished it. Ivar could see it. And Ivar relished seeing him like that. A delighted shudder went through him as he thought of the things they would accomplish together.

*

The first strike came sooner than expected. Lagertha had been warned. She had struck first attacking with her ships in the middle of the night. She hadn't expected the size of their combined army though. And while they had been surprised and suffered heavy losses, she had had to retreat in the end.

And Heahmund, Heahmund had fought alongside them. Ivar had kept him on a chain still before that. Had let him walk around, but never free. That night he'd let him go, to see what would happen. And Heahmund had fallen in line with the other fighters. Not just that, had taken control as he always would. And people, who only hours before had spit at him or mocked him, had fallen to his command, because that was the reaction he caused in others.

"Are you going to chain me up now?" Heahmund asked afterwards. "Again."

"Can I trust you?" Ivar asked, leaning into his space.

"I don't know, can you?"

Heahmund hadn't been in chains again after that.

*

He was as tenacious in his believes as Ivar had only seen before in Floki. Ivar could respect that. Those two were more alike than they would have liked to admit. Only disgust and the wish to kill for whoever didn't share their belief.

Ivar liked to watch them interact. It amused him. Self-righteous indignation on both sides, that if only they could see each other, looked so very much the same. Ivar had never actually seen anyone meet Floki head-on like that. It was like two stray dogs trying to protect their territory. He liked to facilitate those two running into each other more often than necessary. He and Floki had always liked to needle each other, since Ivar could remember. And if Ivar was being honest, he wanted Floki to like him as well, to see what Ivar saw.

*

"Now that you are here among us... heathens." A wicked smirk. "Aren't you worried? Huh, bishop?" Ivar tilted his head. "What about your belief?" he asked teasingly. "What about your... immortal soul?"

Heahmund smiled cocksurely. "Don't worry about my faith. I'm an ordained priest of God. I have all I need to protect my soul. I could turn all your wine and bread into the body and blood of my lord, if I wanted to."

"Good for you," Ivar shrugged. "But don't try to frighten me with your god and your strange witchcraft. That won't work. Floki's the one who's afraid of your God."

"Is he now?" That seemed to amuse the bishop.

*

They made camp on territory outside Kattegat. Ivar held council in his tent that night. As people were about to leave, he turned to Heahmund. 

"Not you."

The bishop looked at him questioningly.

"You stay here." Ivar told him with a smile, pointed at the furrs on the ground beside Ivar's bedstead.

Heahmund smiled wrily. "And sleep at your feet, like your dog?"

Ivar grinned broader.

*

"Tell me about yourself, priest." 

Heahmund was woken in the morning, being nudged with Ivar's crutch where he was sleeping on the floor.

"No." Heahmund replied, pressing his fingers over his closed eyes for a moment. He'd been startled by Ivar. Had forgotten in sleep where he was. The moment he'd felt the metal press into his skin he'd mistaken it for a knife, had jolted up, looking for a sword that wasn't there. Now he was slowly settling down again. Embarrassed to have given such an opening to his enemy. Embarrassed to have let his guard down. Embarrassed, to be honest, that he had indeed slept at the viking's feet like a dog.

"Yes." Ivar reiterated gleefully.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself then?!" Heahmund snapped. He was never his best self in the morning. He used to get up earlier than anyone else, so he'd have at least an hour of solace every morning to settle into himself. But since he'd come into these strange lands, that claimed to be godless despite God being in everything, there was no more routine, nothing to guide him, nothing consistent on which he could steady himself. The only thing that was still the same was the move of a blade in his hand as it cut through an enemy. And what did that make him?

The heathen seemed unaffronted by this demand. "Oh, you know all about me! I'm a cripple. I'm the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. I led the great heathen army, as you call it, into battle and killed the kings Aella and Ecbert." He laughed at how Heahmund's expression darkened at the name of King Ecbert. "Hmm, maybe this is something you don't know. My father, when I was just born, he carried me into the woods so I would die. But my mother saved me."

"It wasn't right of your father to do that. God has given you life so it wasn't his to take it from you again. God has made all his children in his image, so you too must be how he wanted you to be."

Ivar gave a surprised laugh. "A slavegirl once told me exactly the same thing about our gods." He gave a shrug and another laugh. "It must be true then, right?"

*

Ivar watched, slightly detached, as usually not really included, as the men rallied back at camp. His and Heahmund's plan had come through beautifully. Not as beautiful as Heahmund himself though, as he stood there right now, among the men, still brimming with the energy of the battle, glorious in his blood-splattered gear, eyes still calling for blood. Restless, agitated, exhilerated. Ivar watched him with the men and for once there was a camaraderie among them. Playful punches and thumps against each others chests and shields, while howling out their victory. Voices and gestures still raw with battle. And Ivar watched with delight. Then he saw Heahmund grin at one of Harald's men who'd led a flank together with him, saw as the bishop patted his shoulder, the hand going up to his neck in a squeeze, that was all in one praise, respect, brotherhood. And all at once he felt jealous.

Ivar made his way over, the men parting before him, until he stood beside the priest.

"My my," Ivar said mockingly. "What would your God say?"

Within an instant the playful, celebratory demeanor left Heahmund, the man catching himself. Ivar had broken the spell and he felt the loss of it, as the old coldness and distance settled over the priest again, removing himself once more from their world.

*

"He wasn't with you in York." Heahmund said and Ivar immediately knew that he was referring to Floki.

"No, he was not. He was in the land of the gods." Ivar added which earned him another derisive snort from the bishop.

"Who was it then, that martyred the bishop of York?"

"Martyred?" Ivar feigned ignorance. "What does that mean?"

"Murdered him in unspeakable ways." Heahmund interated tersely, impatiently.

"Oh," Ivar nodded. "Yes, that was me."

Heahmund made the sign of the cross and looked more disgusted than he'd ever seen him. Ivar decided he didn't like that look. Not directed at himself.

"Why?" Heahmund asked, looking like just asking that question was an ordeal and his impulse would have been something else. That expression Ivar liked. His priest close to losing control. His very own berserker, again that comparison came to mind, had Ivar seen him often enough in battle so far. He had never seen him bested by another man. Ivar remembered how the bishop had sent his brother Bjorn to the ground during the last battle. And even against many he stood his ground more often than not. But what Ivar really liked about him, was how he continued fighting when the battle was lost. Like he'd done with his Christian warriors, he was now doing for Ivar. Staying behind to the last man. Rage-filled screams echoing through the air as he secured the retreat for his men.

Ivar took his time, answering, watching the priests expression closely and wondering what kind of answer he wanted to give, what kind of reaction he wanted to elicit. He settled for the truth, because it seemed like it involuntary wanted to break free of him whenever he talked to the man. And it had served him well in the past. "Because I don't care for your god. Because I was in a bad mood that day and wanted to watch something die. Because I wanted to send you a message and have you fear me."

Ivar saw the priest wanting to lash out again. But he caught himself again and instead spoke in a calm voice. "That was a mistake. A martyr in my faith is worshipped as a saint. You have sent this man right to heaven. And you should know, there's a point when fear tips into anger." He leaned closer to Ivar, anger now fully showing again, as their faces nearly touched, and he enounciated slowly and clearly. "And it will just make us fight you so much harder."

*

"What was it like, growing up a cripple in these lands?" Heahmund asked.

"Don't try to get into my head, bishop. I've been doing the same to you since you got here. Besides, I assume the same as it would be in your lands."

"Hm, growing up as the cripple of a farmer, maybe. But as the cripple of a king..."

They both laughed.

*

"Do your communion with me." Ivar demanded eagerly.

Heahmund looked at him with distaste. "Certainly not. This is the holy body of Christ and won't be wasted on non-believers."

"Oh, but if I wanted to convert?"

Heahmund smiled thinly. "You don't."

"But shouldn't you at least try to convince me?" Ivar grinned smugly.

Now it was Heahmund's turn to smile. "Oh, I am. Every day."

*

One of the other generals of the army came to Ivar's tent.

"I need to talk to Heahmund."

"Come back later." Ivar looked back into the tent with fondness. "He's praying to his god."

*

"I'm not sleeping on your floor anylonger." Heahmund informed him.

"Would you rather sleep in my bed," Ivar offered with a smile. "Curled at my feet, even more like a dog. It gets cold here at night, I could use it."

"I will have a bed of my own and a tent of my own." Heahmund stated unimpressed.

"Oh, are you? You seem to forget that you're my prisoner." Ivar grinned dangerously, stalking up to Heahmund with his crutch.

"You are not going to deny me, because you know it is my right to ask this of you. Because I've done enough for you and your war to be treated with the respect I deserve."

Ivar's smile simmered down, turned almost sweet. "True." he replied. Then scandalized, "But, priest, what of your humility?!"

Heahmund actually gave a small chuckle, before he went to the tent flap, ready to greet the new day. He turned around once more, still smiling. "Get me my bed, Ivar."

*

"Why is it you hate Lagertha so much?" Heahmund asked, as they were sitting in Ivar's tent, both a bowl of meat and bread in their laps. The priest sitting in front of Ivar on a stool, ellbows on his knees, as he would absentmindedly put a piece of food in his mouth from time to time, as if in afterthought.

"I don't hate her," Ivar shrugged. "I am just ambitious. I want to be king of Kattegat." A grin. "Like everyone else."

"No, you don't." Heahmund didn't even look up to see Ivar's face. "It's personal. You don't care for this." He motioned in the direction of their general surrounding. "Your ambition lies in my country. If at all you want to be king of England. But I doubt it. You just like to conquer, but you don't particular care to rule."

Ivar huffed out a laugh. That was disconcertingly astute. "Is that right, priest?"

"It is." the bishop stated matter-of-factly. "So why is it personal?"

"Poor priest, won't any of the men talk to you? No one in camp who will tell you that story? Alright, I will take pity on you." Ivar smiled. Wide and bitter and hateful. "She killed my mother." At those words the priest's head came up to actually look at him. Ivar didn't know if it was because he was shocked about the gruesomeness of the crime, or whether he was surprised Ivar would even care about his own mother. "My mother was a famous princess, you see. Daughter of very famous parents. She was a witch too. Very beautiful. Very proud. She is the reason I am still alive. She loved me since the day I was born, when my father only loved me in the very last year of his life. And THAT–" He calmed his voice again, "–whore... killed her. Shot her from behind like the pathetic coward she is. Because she still loved my father and because she was spiteful. And that is why I am going to kill her."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Revenge is a sin. Anger is a sin. But the death of a mother doesn't always call for reason." A pause. "Is your brother Ubbe Lagertha's son too?"

"No. He's just a coward. He does not care for our mother. Or, more precisely, he's more scared of Lagertha than he wants to take revenge."

"What would your father say, that you and your brothers are fighting each other?"

"He wouldn't be happy." Ivar shrugged. "But he wouldn't be surprised either. It is the way things go. My uncle, you probably know of him, he is the king of Frankia. He betrayed my father. Many times. That is the way it goes with siblings. Wouldn't you say so, priest?"

"I have had many brothers over the years. Neither would I have betrayed them, nor they me."

"Ah, but you didn't care for them."

The bishop seemed affronted, maybe caught.

"It is not the same anyway," Ivar continued. "For they were not your blood. No one can betray you like your own blood. My father has taught me that."

*

Hvitserk looked at Heahmund angrily, moving into his face.

The bishop only repeated. "Stay back."

"You fucking—" Hvitserk reached for his knife.

Heahmund still didn't move an inch, only his face got even closer to Hvitserk. "Walk away, or I'll put you face-first into the mudd in front of your people."

Hvitserk walked.

 

"You gonna let him talk to me like that?!" Hvitserk asked incensed. "I'm your brother!"

"You are. And he is right. So he can talk to you however he wants."

"Don't you remember how he had Ubbe and me beaten?"

"You were beaten because you made a stupid decision, because you didn't listen to me. He is more help to me than you ever were. So don't try to make me choose you over him, because it will never happen." Ivar replied irritatedly.

"You are as enthralled by the Christian god as our father was!" Hvitserk yelled angrily. "And it will be your downfall!"

Ivar laughed until he shook. "You are embarrassing yourself, brother. You should sit back and listen instead of trying to go head to head with men like me and him."

*

"You loved your father a lot, didn't you?" Heahmund said out of the blue, as they were talking about strategy.

"I admired him, I didn't love him." Ivar bristled.

"I think you did and you do still." Heahmund replied quietly, like he truly wasn't judging him.

Ivar fell quiet, angry, turmoiled. Sad. "I wanted him to love me, that's a difference. And in the end he told me he was proud of me, that I would do great things. But, who knows?" The next thing only a mutter. "Who knows what he was really thinking. He was dying. It was over for him. He had failed. Maybe he tried to project on me, some hope, some legacy. Or he only wanted to make sure I would take revenge for him."

"Or maybe he did love you."

"Don't humor me, priest." Ivar hissed. "Or I'll lose my respect for you."

Heahmund snorted. "I don't care about your respect."

*

"I wouldn't do that." Heahmund spoke up. "We should move the flanks. We are too exposed otherwise."

Ivar looked at him. Then nodded. "You are right, Heahmund. We will do what you suggested."

*

They had taken Kattegat, but the war was far from over. As Lagertha had shown them, it was one thing to take the city, but another to keep it.

*

All around him their palisades were being torn down. Burning arrows where raining from the sky, lighting up horses and men alike. Ivar's horse was hit too, falling to the ground hard. Ivar had to cut through the contraptions tying his legs to the horse, to be able to pull himself out from under the dying creature and crawl away. He dragged himself through the overturned earth, mudd and faces of his fallen comrades staring at him through empty eyes. The puddles on the ground seemed to be mudd and blood to equal parts by now. He realised that at least down here he was a lot saver then those still standing and fighting. No one was aiming for the cripple, siddling across the ground like a snake or a worm. A dry chuckle tore from Ivar's throat.

The arrows had stopped and now there were as many enemy soldiers as his own in their lines. All over him. Legs stomping all around him. Ivar couldn't even see anylonger where he was at the moment. His own people probably didn't even know where he was either, too caught up in their own battle for survival, to look after him.

And then there he was. Breaching his way through the men on a horse he didn't have before. Cutting down men and women in his path like nothing but pesky flies. And Ivar realised that he was coming straight towards him. 

Heahmund grabbed Ivar, throwing him across his horse, and rode off with him, making his way out of the most heated battle zone, back to their own side. 

Ivar wasn't sure what he was more shocked about. To be thrown across a horse like an abducted maiden or a sack of bran, or the fact that the priest had come to save him.

He sat Ivar onto the ground once they were save. And then rode right back into the battle and drove Lagertha's forces back behind their fortifications.

*

Ivar couldn't quite let it stand like this though.

*

He crawled towards Heahmund, who was sitting on his bed, reading again in the bible of the priest Athelstan. Leave it to Heahmund to of course find this among the keepsakes of the priest, his father had kept through all these years, out of sentimentality for the Christian, and Lagertha after he was gone, out of sentimentality for his father. And of course his bishop wouldn't at all have reservations to sift through things that clearly not belonged to him, right after Ivar had only just taken this place.

Ivar crawled right up to Heahmund and deliberately pulled himself onto the bed by the priest's body, leveraging himself up by grabbing leg, thigh, shoulder, neck, whatever he could reach, until he'd seated himself beside him. The bishop allowed it with mild irritation, like this was hardly the worst of Ivar's antics.  
Ivar took a breath, brushed a hand through his hair and smiled at Heahmund broadly, before he pulled his knife. Showing it to Heahmund with an expectant smile like he was about to perform a trick, before he pressed it to Heahmund's chest, like he had once upon a time. Piece by piece he cut through the strings on the front of Heahmund's shirt, ever increasing the pressure of the knife.

"You think you are so very great, don't you?" Ivar asked.

"You were the one who told me I'm a great warrior." Heahmund simply replied.

"Isn't pride a sin with your god, huh?"

"It is."

"Hmmhmm." Ivar ran the knife up to Heahmund's throat now, pressing until the other had to lean back, pressing until the other could not but let himself fall down onto the bed. And Ivar's knife followed. Leaning over the priest now, he said, "You think you're better than me. You think I depend on you. But never forget, you belong to me." Ivar leaned down and pressed his lips to Heahmund's, harsher even than the knife that was still threatening to bite the skin of his throat. Again a jolt went through Ivar, as heady and unexpected as the first time he'd done this. And this time he allowed himself to close his eyes and hold the pressure, to allow himself to feel the warmth of these lips a little longer. And Ivar felt the throb between his legs, spreading into his belly, a current that ran through his arms and legs, tingling in fingertips and toes, and he allowed himself to part his lips and push his tongue where those of the priest where seamed together. They parted, maybe through surprise. And some sound escaped the bishop, -Ah-, simple, surprised, maybe something else, barely more than a breath expelled. And Ivar had barely time to lick into that mouth once, before those lips closed again and the bishop's hand came up to push against Ivar's chest, not really pushing yet, aware of the knife still there, but at the same time saying that he didn't care about the knife enough to stop him from moving.  
Ivar broke the kiss, let out a breath against the mouth of the priest, a sigh, diguised as a chuckle, not allowing himself to show that this was more than the display of dominance it had been intented as. He leaned down again brushing his nose against Heahmund's, perversely tender, just to fuck with him a bit, then he rolled himself to the side, lying beside Heahmund, taking the knife with him. He threw both arms over his head, letting out a contented sigh. Showing of how very little a threat towards him he considered the bishop, even now, that he controlled him, even now. Then he gave the priest his best smiling expression. 

Heahmund wasn't facing him, was still lying on his back himself, staring at the ceiling, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

Ivar thumped him on the shoulder lightly. "Now, don't be cross, priest."

Heahmund's breath stopped for a second, like Ivar had caught him in the mid of a thought. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth, then he abruptly sat up.

Ivar himself pushed his body up halfway on his elbows, still on his back. It was clear Heahmund was about to leave. "Where are you going, priest?" Ivar asked, amusedly. "This is your bedroom." He shook in silent laughter as he saw the hands of the priest contract into fists, before he seemed to forcefully relax them again.

"I'll stay then." Heahmund replied, facing Ivar with a snarling smile, picking up his bible as if nothing had happened.

Ivar watched him in silence, his body still wrapped into the lulling warmth of arousal. He just let his body thrum with it, relaxing into it, watching the priest who'd been the cause of it, with marvel. He felt good, better than he remembered having felt in a long time. Maybe only when he'd killed Aella, when he'd lead their army into battle the first time. Maybe only just. Lying here on this bed with this banter between the two of them, he might as well have been whole, now that his body for once responded as it should. And as long as he stayed lying here and didn't turn to leave he wouldn't be reminded that it wasn't so. He found his hand sliding forward to run up the priest's arm, that was just in reach of him, but he stopped himself in time. Enough antagonisation for tonight. But the priest was interesting. Interesting in his reactions. Always interesting. Both their thoughts always seemed to go faster than anyone else's and always seemed to move into the same direction. At least when it came to war. Maybe.

And here, Heahmund was alone too, just like Ivar had been alone his whole life. So, maybe, he could understand how Ivar felt. Because Ivar saw the insecurity, the latent fear in Heahmund's eyes as he moved among Ivar's people. The feeling of not belonging, even though Heahmund wasn't crawling through the mudd. Although, Ivar had had him do that. In the beginning. Remembered, 'On his knees!', bringing the priest down to his level only too often, making a point he wasn't even aware of. Not to degrade the other, but to make them more alike, to implicitly, subconsciously build a connection between them.

Ivar then said what he hadn't meant to bring up but what had been the whole point of this ambush. "You came for me."

"Yes." Heahmund replied immediately, like he hadn't been deeply engrossed in his book, like his thoughts too had strayed to exactly this topic, like he once again seemed to be reading Ivar's thoughts, because maybe, Ivar started to think, they were his own too.

"Why?"

"As you said, nothing is keeping me alive but you."

*

Another kiss. Taken like the first one. Not given. And how could he even begin to wish it would be freely given? No one touched Ivar the boneless of their free will, without their own agenda. Not Margrete. Not the other slavegirl. Certainly not his Christian priest. People were scared and disgusted of him in equal measure. And Ivar had made it his weapon, relished in it. But the thing was, whatever reservations the priest had against him, none of those two emotions had figured into it. To find respect and admiration in a man Ivar respected and admired to such a degree, was the headiest drug Ivar had ever known. And he knew he wouldn't be able to abstain from touching the priest again. And again and again and again. Until Heahmund told him clearly to stop. Not the quiet disapproval and elusive shock it had been so far. The bishop wasn't too intimidated to tell him no, so Ivar could push, because he knew when it came down to it Heahmund would push back.

*

Bjorn came to talk. Of course the bitch would send him. Counting on him not harming his own brother. Sigurd should have taught them all differently. But, no, she wouldn't take that risk. Not with her only child. She was too smart for that. Knew Ivar for what he was. Was too shrewd herself. Ivar wondered if she was fucking Ubbe already. No, it would have been Bjorn who'd have volunteered to come. As always, sentimental like their father, counting on the bond between them. Thinking that after all, they were still brothers. But, he wasn't too wrong. Ivar cared more for Bjorn than he cared for all his other brothers. The two of them often the only ones who saw their father for who he truly was, a great man, even when all others had been looking down on him.

The two of them sat at the fire in the great hall for a late supper. Negotiations through for today. All others gone to bed by now. They talked. About the Mediterranean. About King Harald's marriage to Astrid. 

And then the topic fell to Heahmund.

"He is strong," Bjorn said. "That is good. Good for you. Athelstan had our father's trust." Bjorn raised a finger. "And he never betrayed it. Even when we fought King Ecbert. But it tore him up. Living in two worlds. You have to make sure your priest is here, in his mind too." he said, pointing to his own temple.

"Well, well, brother, who'd have thought you could give such sound advice?" Ivar wiped up some broth with a chunk of bread. "Don't worry. My priest is a viking, he just doesn't know it yet."

"Will you give him a bracelet?" Bjorn asked, wiping his hands on his trousers, before taking another swig of ale. "Father gave one to Athelstan, after he'd saved his life in Wessex."

"I will not. Because he wouldn't take it. So I'm not going to ask. He does not need one anyway. He cut a man's throat to seal our pact. Does that sound very Christian to you?"

Bjorn snorted in agreement, the asked, "Is he your lover?" 

"What?"

"I'm just asking." Bjorn shrugged.

"Maybe he is," Ivar smirked. "What would you say to that?"

"It's the same to me." Bjorn replied simply. "But people will talk. They always did with our father and Athelstan. And I'm not even sure they were fucking."

Ivar smiled. "I'm a cripple, people have been talking all my life."

*

"Have you seen him?" Lagertha asked, when Bjorn had returned, as they sat together, the proceedings of his stay already recounted. His mother looked curious, like a young girl for a moment, and not like the hardened, disillusioned woman she'd become through loss and treachery. "The warrior-priest."

"Yes," Bjorn replied. "He walks around like a free man. My brother trusts him."

Lagertha nodded. "Like your father trusted Athelstan. Like we all did."

Bjorn shook his head. "He's no Athelstan."

"I know, son." Lagertha laughed, raising her eyebrows. "I have seen him in battle."

"Floki isn't happy either." Bjorn continued.

"I can imagine. Not unhappy enough to return to my side, though, right?" She chuckled. Then her face turned pensive. "That priest, Christian or not, he is blessed by the gods in battle. He ... is an great advantage your brother has."

"He is."

*

But there would be no peace, as Ivar had known. Ivar didn't want peace. Harald didn't want peace. And Lagertha, she wanted Kattegat back.

*

Ivar waited, sitting on the throne in the great hall, as befitted a king. Smugly he waited there for his warriors to return, for Heahmund. 

One after another they filtered in. Only, Heahmund wasn't among them. All of them bloody, battleworn and drawn. Defeat implicitly hanging above them. And slowly the smug expression fell from Ivar's face.

He asked Hvitserk, but his brother only shook his head, with a helpless shrug, looking at him with tired and shell-shocked eyes, out of a blood and dust covered face, before he moved past him.

None of the men and women who had walked in, to bring this or that bad news or just slump down on one of the tables, had been able to give him any news. So Ivar let himself down from the throne, not even bothering to put his braces on and started crawling to the gate where still people were arriving. Crawling through the dirt, like he hadn't in a long time, feeling an unknown feeling of dread claw at his chest, that couldn't be compared to the feeling when he'd left his father behind, nor the time when he'd gotten the news of his mother's murder. When he'd left his father behind there had been determination, determination to take revenge. With his mother there had been blind fury. Now, he just felt devastation and panic. He'd wanted Heahmund to die for him, but not yet, not now. 

He reached the gate, breathing hard, open mouthed, each gulp not seeming enough, eyes frantically scanning the people moving past him, some of them supported by others, some carried on haphazard stretchers, some so covered in blood and gashes they were barely recognizable, so very clearly at the door of death.

And then there he was. Limping through the rows of men. Pale eyes shining out of the face crusted with blood. Cradling one hand to his chest. Face contracting in pain on every step. Alive. Suddenly his eyes found Ivar there on the ground. And his expression that had been pensive interlaced with pained, changed. Now there was only deep shame for having lost the battle.

*

Ivar watched like a hawk as the priests wounds were washed and his hand splinted, hand and arm swolen black and blue, bone shining white out of the bloody mess.

*

The priest got a fever. Fading in and out of consciousness. Tossing and turning, covered in sweat. Ivar sat beside his bed. Displeased. Displeased with this as a whole. He reached out a hand and put it experimentally on the priest's sweaty forehead. Let it rest there and thought better of it than to take it away again. He felt slightly better now.

*

Heahmund wasn't sure what he saw, where he was. Specters dancing on the walls, or maybe they were people walking past him. His body ached, mixtures of too hot and too cold all the time.

"Are you dying, priest?" a voice asked with malicious curiousity.

Heahmund wondered for a moment if it was the devil, come here to wring his soul out of his hands. But the fog cleared and he saw it was only Floki.

"I am not." Heahmund replied, baring his teeth.

"That's a shame." the viking replied, tilting his head, looking at Heahmund closer. "Because I can't kill you myself." Floki's thoughts seemed to drift away, as if he was the one in a fever haze. "No. I can't do that again. No, no."

Suddenly there was fresh air in the room, a gust of wind. A clang of metal on the ground.

"Get away from him! Get out!"

And out of the corner of his eye, Heahmund could see Ivar standing in the doorway.

*

Ivar impatiently held a cup of water to Heahmund's lips, cupping the back of his head, to help him drink, after he'd had enough of seeing the other reach for it with the one shaking hand that he could actually use.

The priest coughed, some of the water running down his chin and Ivar wiped it away with irritation.

"How are we doing?" Heahmund asked and Ivar was taken off guard.

"We are under siege. For now. But I have a plan."

"Tell me."

"How about you concentrate on not dying!" Ivar replied, more angry than he'd realised.

Heahmund huffed out a laugh, which was quite a feat for a man who'd just moments ago nearly choked on a sip of water. "I'm not dying, Ivar. I've had fevers before in my life and I've tended to people who had fevers and seen my share of them dying. This is not the dying kind of fever."

"I'll have to take your word on it, won't I?"

*

Funny enough, once Heahmund had recovered, it was Ivar who got sick. Bristling like a cat or a wild dog at whoever came into his room and being an alltogether nuisance.

"No one cares," Heahmund told him. "No one cares that you're sick. It happens. It takes time."

Heahmund could tell how hard it was for Ivar to be unable to lead his army right now, to be even weaker than he already deemed himself to be most of the time, even if he was the only one who thought so.

He had once again went to check up on Ivar. Where else would he go, really, when there was no one else he truly cared to talk to.

He exchanged the herbal leg compresses, that Ivar had spit fire and venom when Heahmund had put them on despite the clear order not to touch his legs. This time there was less of a tantrum. Ivar was feeling worse again.

As Heahmund was about to leave again, Ivar's voice called him back. "Tell me about yourself, priest." the demand came again. So much weaker this time. No dare in it.  
When Heahmund turned around. Ivar looked none the conqueror, the torturer, the dangerous mind that was tearing away on Heahmund's sanity. He looked exhausted, scared. Lost and young. And Heahmund stayed.

"I was born fourth son to a minor noble. The name won't mean anything to you. As any boy born into nobility I was trained in the ways of combat. But since there was nothing for me to inherit I was at fourteen sent to take my vows. I did so. And later I travelled overseas with my brothers to establish hospitals and tend to the sick, where good Christian people where fighting to protect our faith. I didn't tend the sick for long. As I was able to and the situation commanded it I picked up arms again and fought alongside the man in battle there. Upon my return I was made Bishop of Sherborne. Since then I've led my brothers into battle whenever my king or my church where in need of my service."

"Let me guess, they were that a lot."

*

Ivar recovered fast, maybe due to the unwanted administrations of the priest, whose care had hit Ivar unprepared and deeper than he'd like to admit. Less than a week later Ivar was more or less back on his legs.

Ivar grabbed Heahmund by the back of his neck. "Why have the gods send you to me? Why?" His other hand came up to cup the priest's face for a moment that seemed to stretch, then he let go of him again.

"I don't know." Heahmund replied, even after he'd been released again.

*

Ivar may have been in full health again, but the priest's hand still hadn't healed.

He could see how impatient the bishop was, how hard it was for him to wait, to be unable to return to battle. Ivar saw him training with his other hand outside, tenacious, overbearing, bringing several other warriors to the point where they refused to spar with him. Heahmund was restless, moody. And now Ivar knew that finally the priest knew, even just a little, how Ivar was feeling every day of his life. And he also knew that the priest was his now. It wasn't his battle. He didn't have to care whether he could fight for them or not. But now he did.

"You will heal again, you know that priest, right?" Ivar said conversationally.

"When though?!" the bishop snarled as uncontrolled as seldomly, holding out his splinted arm like it had personally offended him.

"Soon, priest. Soon. And then you'll be able to fight for me again."

*

Heahmund didn't know what the heathen was doing. They were both irritated. Heahmund by his inability to fight. Ivar by the slowness with which the war proceeded. And Ivar seemed to spend every free minute trying to antagonize him to a degree he hadn't done since the beginning. 

Just now he seemed to move up into Heahmund's space even more. 

When Heahmund had tried to do a holy communion in the privacy of his own room, the other day, Ivar had come in, ripped the cup from his hands, taking a sip, before just tossing it away. Then he'd grabbed as piece of bread, putting it in his mouth and offering it to Heahmund on his tongue.

At that point he'd just gotten up and left the sacrilegious heathen behind in his room.

Then the other day he'd just sat down on the table beside Heahmund and asked, "Do you ever have sex, priest?"

"What?! You know very well that as an ordained priest I have made a vow of chastity."

"I didn't ask whether you've made a vow of chastity. I asked whether you have sex."

Which had resulted in Heahmund abandoning his breakfast, fully aware that walking away from this would give Ivar a very clear answer to his question.

*

Heahmund didn't know how the heathen had found out about his basest desires, that mortal sin that Heahmund tried to cover up by indulging in a less condemned sin.

But for now it didn't matter, for Heahmund was once more following the call of his flesh, as he was unable not to. One hand grabbed Ivar's thigh where he was sitting before him, the other, the broken one, resting on the bed beside him, and Heahmund leaned forward, his knees in the dirt as if in prayer.

There was a certain abandonment Heahmund found in sex that he also found in battle. A moment of letting go, of being stripped of his mind, just body anylonger. Something primal, something that made Heahmund feel more like who he was, like he was scratching the surface to something else, something he wasn't entirely sure should be excavated. Freedom, exhileration, power. While in battle he felt he was doing the service of his Lord, during this shameful act he new for a fact he wasn't, was instead treading the path to damnation. But Heahmund had come to terms with being a sinner in the days of his youth. Had acknowledged that man was weak and sinful and that he wouldn't be one of those who managed to achieve sainthood here on earth, but that he could still be a useful tool of his lord, trying to atone for his sins where he committed them.

And so he buried his face between the thighs of this man who was his enemy, but who'd managed to smudge these lines to an alarming and confusing level, and tasted the sin that he'd been unable to abstain from again and again.

*

And the priest did heal. And he went back fighting. As Ivar had predicted.

The fullfillment of his desires was still resting heavily in Ivar's mind. A confusing, inexplicable power the other man had over him. That made Ivar afraid, weak and needy, when he couldn't allow himself to be either of it. Even more disconcerting that the priest had seemed to desire him, when even a slave girl who's life may have depeneded on it, couldn't pretend that convincingly. Ivar was afraid and he wished his mother to be there or that he could talk to his brothers as he used to. As things were, he certainly couldn't talk to Hvitserk.

So Ivar went to the only person left.

"Floki, I might want to have sex with the priest." he started the conversation, sitting himself on an overturned tree trunk. "What are you doing, Floki?" Ivar asked, when the other only seemed to murmur words to the sky.

"Oh, just asking the gods why they didn't let me drown on my way back." Floki replied with a skewed smile.

"Floki, this is serious." Ivar chastised him. "How can I tell if someone is interested in me?"

"Why do you care?" Floki shrugged. "He's a slave."

"He's not a slave." Ivar replied harshly.

Floki's expression softened somewhat, getting over his own turmoil. He sat down beside Ivar, putting an arm around him. "We are all scared when we're in love–"

"I'm not in love." Ivar interrupted quickly.

"We all feel insecure then," Floki continued as if he hadn't heard him. "You never know until you find out. And sometimes you'll have to fight for someone and sometimes you just have to be brave enough to ask."

"What if that person's just trying to manipulate you?"

"I think the two of you have been trying to manipulate each other since the beginning and it hasn't done either of you any good."

*

The priest came back from his first battle since his hand was healed. Covered in blood and the glory of victory. Ivar stayed long enough to make sure that he was alive, then stole himself away, waiting instead in Heahmund's room, pretending he hadn't spent the last hour, since he himself had left the battle tower from which he'd overseen and given commands, waiting impatiently for his return. 

There he was still standing when Heahmund walked in, the effort getting harder with every passing minute, purposely leafing through Heahmund's bible to rile him up. This time though, the priest only stood there, and laughed at him, as he let his sword and scabbard fall to the floor with a clatter. He took the bible from Ivar's hand and gave a sharp push against his chest. Ivar fell onto the bed, his stand not even close to firm enough to stay upright. He stared at the priest in disbelief, indignation and anger. But Heahmund only laughed again, kissed the bible before putting it away savely, his face still painted with the color that only battle painted with, and started pulling off his own clothes, that were still his equally dust and blood covered battle armor. And before Ivar could comprehend it, he had settled on the bed on top of him, thighs on either side of his body. And Ivar wanted to say something, anything, but then already Heahmund's hands were undoing the bindings of Ivar's pants. And he touched Ivar with easy confidence, and unexpected hunger. Took from him what he wanted. And what he wanted that was a surprise to Ivar as well. For there was no warrior who'd have put himself into that position of his own free will.

Ivar watched Heahmund come undone above him. Watched the man, who'd become his only friend besides Floki. He didn't trust him, neither did trust the other. But Ivar wanted to. He wanted to be able to trust him. And that scared him and exhilerated him in a way he found distressing. 

Ivar watched the priest's face contract, mouth slightly open as in prayer, eyes fluttering shut. Could only imagine his own face looking much the same, as it became hard to keep his mind clear, hard to hold any thought at all. But one thought, one thought shot through Ivar's mind again and again, like the jolts of electricity that seemed to surge through his body. He had him, Ivar knew, he had him in a way. The priest was becoming his more and more with every passing day, with every battle fought in Ivar's name, every shared confidence. And still, as he lay there, catching his breath, Ivar knew that the conversation with Floki hadn't solved anything. Ivar wasn't arrogant enough, shortsighted enough, to stop considering for just one moment that the priest was playing him in the same way Ivar was playing him. But if it was exactly in the same way, then maybe Ivar had nothing to worry about, or maybe it meant they both should worry.

*

"I'm losing myself," Heahmund said, their lips parting. "I'm losing myself in this place."

"No," Ivar shook his head. "You are not lost but found." He made the sign of the cross on Heahmund's forehead.


End file.
